


Follow my Leader

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Leadership, Quantum Mechanics, Sorbonne - Freeform, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Never in his life given the opportunity to choose whom to serve, at the end of a long journey, Illya finds a leader he might be willing to follow.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Alexander Waverly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Follow my Leader

**Murmansk, March 1953**

A curious tension had crept through the submarine in the last few days; no-one knew the reason for it and it was always dangerous to speculate out loud. Two junior lieutenants, chatting before going off duty, were careful to keep the conversation on the mundane.

“Where will you go on leave, comrade Kuryakin?”

The young lieutenant smiled. “I have been granted extended leave to pursue my studies,” he said. “I’m going to Leningrad.”

“Lucky man. What is it – navigation?”

“No. A branch of physics. Quantum mechanics.”

Not much the wiser, the other lieutenant shrugged. “Rather you than me, comrade,” and seeing Kuryakin open his mouth to explain, hurriedly interjected, “I think I’ll turn in. See you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning.”

Unspoken speculation was fuelled further when the submarine returned a little early from its tour of duty. The captain also waited out in the bay before bringing the sub in under cover of darkness.

He now called the crew. They stood in silence waiting for the order to disembark.

“Comrades,” the captain began solemnly. “We have come in quietly as a mark of respect because I have the gravest news. Our Beloved Leader is dead. Comrade Generalissimus Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, is no more.” And he bowed his head.

A sigh went up from the ship’s company. Unthinkable that he should have died. They looked at each other, shocked; some even shed tears. For most of them, he was the People’s Tsar, the man they had looked up to all their lives.

There were a few, however, who recognised the captain’s explanation for their covert arrival as that of a party man; a few whose life experiences had formed them in a different mould. Rejecting and resenting the sophistry, the corruption and the dishonesty of politicians and their easy political slogans, they pitied those who believed in them. But, beyond anything, they rejected the cruelty, the millions of deaths caused by this one leader. Their allegiances could be won only by the honourable and incorruptible.

Never sure who might betray them, none of them ever spoke of it; they kept their heads down, giving no outward evidence of their opinions. But flooding those hearts now was a sense of relief, a sense that maybe a real egalitarian, socialist system might be restored, a better one, and that a new era of freedom might ensue.

<><><>

The train making its way south to Leningrad was crowded with fellow naval officers taking the opportunity to go somewhere more interesting than the Murmansk naval base. Kuryakin kept his head down and concentrated on his book. From time to time, he looked up, his eyes vague, apparently memorising the text. His neighbour, a petty officer, cocked his head to see what was occupying the lieutenant’s attention and nudged him.

“What’s the book, comrade?”

Kuryakin blinked and looked at him. “It’s a German textbook,” he said.

“You’re learning German? Why?”

“Just learning some specialist vocabulary. I need to read physics papers for my studies.”

“Why not Russian ones?”

The petty officer’s slightly belligerent air was a warning to be economical with the truth. “We Russians always need to check that others are not stealing our thunder, you know,” he said.

“There are spies everywhere, it seems,” said the petty officer aggressively. “They should be dealt with.” It was now apparent that he had been drinking with some of the others, who now looked like joining in.

“What branch of physics are you studying?” asked a more senior officer who saw it was time to calm the atmosphere.

“Quantum mechanics,” said Kuryakin a little warily.

“Ah. You no doubt understand the uncertainty principle then.”

“Yes…?”

“The idea being, you might say,” said the officer looking around genially at blank faces, “that the position of a particle cannot be observed while it is in motion. Am I right?”

“Something like that,” said Kuryakin. “A particle’s momentum when part of a wave cannot be measured accurately at the same time as its location, and _vice versa_.”

“We are all in motion. Can our position be measured, or plotted?”

“At this scale, quite easily,” said Kuryakin.

“Who’s plotting?” demanded his slightly drunken neighbour.

“No-one,” said Kuryakin. “This relates to physics.”

The petty officer subsided.

“Our position can be measured so easily?” said the officer.

“Of course. At this scale, classical physics operates perfectly well.”

“Where are you studying, may I ask?”

“I have special leave to start studying at Leningrad State University, comrade captain, sir,” Kuryakin said, rather belatedly acknowledging the officer’s rank.

“No doubt I shall be able to plot your position there, comrade lieutenant. What is your name?”

“Kuryakin, sir.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kiev, sir.”

“I know it well.”

The young officer dropped his eyes. The captain’s knowledge of Kiev extended to more than its streets and buildings so instead of pursuing that question he looked around at others in the carriage and asked others about their plans while on leave.

<><><>

It was a very long journey but at last the train pulled into Leningrad’s Moskovsky Station. Lieutenant Kuryakin hefted his bag and climbed down onto the platform. He was heading for the exit when a voice called his name. He turned to find the captain following him. “Sir?”

“I have a car waiting to take me into Leningrad – it’s a long walk – can I offer you a lift?”

The young man’s face was pink. “Sir, I…”

“Get in, boy. I’m interested in you.”

“You are very kind. Thank you, sir.”

Any anxiety Kuryakin might have felt about the captain’s interest, was quickly allayed in conversation. The captain’s knowledge of quantum physics was minimal but he drew the young lieutenant out on his understanding of it and found him intelligent and articulate.

“No doubt Leningrad State University is a good place to study?” he said.

“Yes, indeed, sir. One of the best.”

“And what next? What will the Navy do with you when you graduate?”

“I haven’t been told, sir. I will obey orders, of course.”

“Apart from German, what other languages do you know?”

The lieutenant hesitated before divulging his other passion, languages, and, when the captain’s eyebrows shot up, he said in explanation, “I like to read works of literature in the original language.”

The captain sat back. Here was a prize indeed. It would be a pity to waste the young man’s talents, but he was a Ukrainian who might harbour disaffection for the way his compatriots had been treated by the late Leader. Nothing in his demeanour suggested disaffection and he had been permitted to pursue his studies. Someone thought highly of him.

“Would you be interested in intelligence work?” He said suddenly.

The young man looked out at the passing scene for a moment. “In what way, sir?”

“I mean using your undoubted intelligence abroad, say. If you chose to take a further degree. Say, in the West…”

There was silence again, then the Lieutenant said, “To study in the West would be a… a welcome opportunity to widen my understanding.”

They were approaching the centre of the city now. “Lieutenant, I shall follow your progress with the greatest interest. We shall meet again. Is this a good place to drop you off?”

“Oh, yes indeed. Thank you, sir.”

<><><>

One of the most beautiful cities in the world, Leningrad now was not a comfortable place. There were too many signs of the damage it had suffered in the last dozen years. The horrors of the siege were a dreadful collective memory. Half a million individuals (some said it was more than a million) who had died of hunger and cold during the siege were ghostly presences in the empty spaces of people’s lives. Added to that, only three years ago, prominent local politicians had been executed for treason by order by the (in this city) far-from-Beloved Leader. The accusations were only now being denounced as fabricated – but too late. The resulting bitter frost of resentment was not to be readily melted in the slight thaw that had set in under the new Soviet leadership.

Kuryakin, never oblivious to this, was nevertheless comparatively happy. Free to explore the mysteries of the quantum world, he excelled. His teachers quickly found him light years ahead of his peers. They were, however, aware that his work as well as their own was being monitored by a higher power.

When there were no classes, Kuryakin took the opportunity to roam the canals and the hundreds of bridges that crossed them in this Venice of the north. In the autumnal winds, he looked out over the choppy waters of the broad Neva, glad to be on dry land and not at sea. The tall gilded spire of the Peter Paul Fortress was gleaming in the sun across the river when a large black limousine pulled up beside him. With so little other traffic, such vehicles should never be ignored. He turned and saw the captain who had promised to follow his progress beckoning from the back seat.

“A particle when not in motion is easy to find,” he said when Kuryakin came to the window. “Get in, my friend.”

The car moved off smoothly and Kuryakin waited for the captain to speak again.

“One of your languages is French, I seem to recall,” was his first remark.

“Yes, sir.”

“How does the idea of studying for your doctorate at the Sorbonne strike you?”

Kuryakin’s jaw dropped. “My doctorate… already? The Sorbonne, Paris? … ” 

“The university has agreed to accept you when term starts in a week’s time.” The captain seeing his deep flush smiled and before Kuryakin could speak, he said, “Before you go, there are one or two things to discuss. In my office. That’s where we are going now.”

<><><>

He had a week to get ready. Packing was simple – he had very little, after all. But the ordinance imposed on him was less easy to prepare for. Sure, he could read the newspapers, become involved in student politics, make contact with French communists. But to report back? Become a spy? Did he want to betray a host country’s welcome, even with information that was publicly available? Was he so easily bought?

It seemed so. He shook his head and sat dangling his hands between his knees struggling with his conscience. Paris… City of light, city of culture… music, theatre. Maybe good food – people said French cuisine was one of the best.

But perhaps not quite so easily bought. If he failed to fulfill the demands of the Secret Service, he would be recalled and executed or sent to a Gulag. They hadn’t said so, but the threat was implicit. People just disappeared – everyone knew that.

He also knew that if he didn’t go, there would never be another opportunity. There was no choice, really.

<><><>

The journey to Berlin took more than a day and night and the train was crowded. No one took much notice of the fair young man tucked away in his corner by the window. He slept a good deal and remained silent when awake. He woke up perforce when they stopped at the Polish border and thereafter watched the countryside they passed through with a growing sense of loss. It wasn’t so very different from the home he had left behind and almost forgotten.

At Warsaw, the compartment emptied. The door then slid open again and there was bump beside him as a large heavy man sat down. Kuryakin looked round at a man in early middle age, evidently full of bonhomie and alcohol, who introduced himself in heavily accented Polish, and asked where he was going. Kuryakin replying in the same language told him he was going to Berlin. Now assuming he was German, the man asked in that language where he was from and when Kuryakin told him Kiev, he said, “Ah, Russisch.”

Kuryakin replied mildly, also in German, “Ukrainer.”

“Where are you staying in Berlin?” Beldon boomed. “I’ll show you around.”

“Thank you, but no. I am travelling to Paris tomorrow night, Herr Beldon,” Kuryakin replied.

“You’re going on to Paris? How’s that?”

“I have permission to study at the Sorbonne for a doctoral degree… in physics.”

Herr Beldon winked at him, said, “I see,” and a fat hand patted his shoulder as if he knew better. “Permission, eh? Very interesting.”

Kuryakin felt his colour rise.

The man wasn’t German. His accent was something central European, but Kuryakin couldn’t quite place it. He found his rumbustious style off-putting. It was a relief when he fell asleep.

<><>

When the train rolled into Zoo Garten Station, the young man reached under the seat for his case and stood up. He looked round to say goodbye, but his flamboyant neighbour was right behind and following him.

They left the train together and were about to part, when Beldon said suddenly, “Sprechen Sie englisch?”

“Of course,” said Kuryakin in that language.

An older man – quite short, slight, wearing a tweed suit; a man you wouldn’t look at twice in the street – had seen Beldon and was approaching.

“Beldon. How convenient. I thought I’d missed you. I had hoped to see you at the office,” he said in English, adding, “I’m going to Paris tonight.”

Beldon clapped Kuryakin on the shoulder again, startling him.

“Let me introduce this young man,” he said. “He is also going to Paris. Lieutenant Kuryakin, of the Soviet Navy – a remarkable fellow. He is a scientist who has also mastered several languages and is travelling to Paris to study. How about that? Interested?”

The older man held out his hand to the youthful (and, it must be said, distinctly irritated) figure before him. The blue eyes were cool as they shook hands.

“Lieutenant – my colleague… Tell him who you are, Alex.”

The man Alex said, “My name is Waverly. I am a director of an organisation which enforces international order under the law. Beldon here is about to become head of the local section.”

Kuryakin looked surprised. “I had not heard of such an organisation,” he said.

“Very likely not,” said Waverly. “But you may begin to hear more soon. We expect to make arrangements with the USSR to join us any day now. The new leadership seems to be open to our request.”

“To join the organisation?”

“Yes, indeed. To become a member and offer candidates suitable to become agents for us.”

Beldon, watching the young man’s face, said, “You might be interested, Lieutenant?”

“Even if I were, it would not be up to me. I can only do what I am ordered.”

The older man looked at him thoughtfully, seeing far more than the young Russian would have liked. “Perhaps you’d like to join me on the journey, and hear more,” he said.

Kuryakin swallowed. Was this someone to be seen in company with? But perhaps this would be an opportunity to start his career in espionage. It would be rude to say no, of course. “I would be honoured,” he said.

<><><>

“My ticket is for second class,” said Kuryakin when Waverly led the way to the first-class coaches. Having had only a brief wash and shave on the train to Berlin, he now felt an altogether inadequate companion for the dapper little Englishman.

“I have a compartment to myself – whom I choose to share it with is my affair,” responded Waverly, nodding to the porter holding the door for him. There was a hamper on top of the baggage trolley that contained Waverly’s cases. Kuryakin’s own provisions, little enough to sustain him on yet another long journey, as well as a further embarrassment, consisted of a bottle of beer, some sausages, and cheese and pickle rolls.

The porter arranged the baggage on the racks and, suitably recompensed, left them alone.

“Please sit down, Lieutenant. You look, if I may say so, as if you need a good night’s sleep, so don’t mind me if you wish to take advantage of those empty seats.”

“Thank you, sir. I am fine. Maybe later.”

“Good. I’d like to know more about you, if you permit, but first…” He turned to the hamper on the seat next to him. “You’ll share whatever is in here, I hope?”

“I have some beer and sausages, sir. I don’t want to deprive you.”

“Nonsense, have a glass and a plate.”

<>

The young man was asleep. Food and wine had had their effect and the restless wiry body had relaxed at last. Waverly contemplating him, thought he was like a primed shell, full of suppressed energy and burning with a passionate and hitherto wasted intelligence. An unusually interesting individual. Still very young of course. He looked about sixteen but was older both in years and in other ways that made Waverly wonder what furnace of experience had moulded him. He detected a deep melancholy, carefully disguised as polite humility and, because of it, hadn’t asked about his family or how he had lived during the war – those were questions you could only ask in countries that hadn’t suffered as greatly as Russia had.

Instead, while they ate dinner, Waverly had described his hopes for his organisation which had clearly struck a chord with the young man. He knew very little of international affairs, but had asked questions which showed a penetrating grasp of their significance.

Kuryakin had also looked at the card he showed him and, in his fluent but still strongly accented English, said, “U.N.C.L.E? A cosy title for a law enforcement agency, is it not?”

“I’m afraid so. The name stuck when someone made an addition to the original words of its title.”

Kuryakin’s smile had been a little cynical. “Your employees are not cosy, then?”

“Of course not. But despite their role, they are highly trained to protect life as much as possible. We are not like some police forces. Our agents are not allowed or encouraged to kill anyone unnecessarily.”

“No?” Kuryakin’s surprise was quickly masked by seeming indifference. “I thought orders to kill demonstrated power.”

Waverly had sat back, his eyebrows raised. “Not at all. That kind of power is oppression or tyranny. I – that is, _we_ – value life.”

Kuryakin’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and reluctant interest. “To whom are you answerable?”

“To the member countries.”

Kuryakin thought about that. “You are a leader of these men? And they follow even orders not to kill?”

“They do. Of course, as agents, they are more expendable than any innocent bystander whose life is threatened, so they cannot kill with impunity. If they do kill someone, it must be accounted for.” Waverly smiled at his expression. “Leaders do not prove themselves by condoning murder or even injustice. Or do you think that leadership requires psychopathic tendencies?”

“I don’t, personally,” the young man had said. ”I have merely observed traits such as psychopathy and narcissism in powerful leaders.” Kuryakin had then stopped – seemingly embarrassed at having revealed his true opinions, or perhaps fearing he had been impolite.

“I would call them flaws of character, rather than desirable traits of leadership,” Waverly had commented.

There was silence for a few moments as the Russian digested this. “Where is your section of UNCLE based, sir?” he asked.

“In New York. I shall fly there from Paris.”

And there the conversation had ended; Kuryakin had turned away to look out of the window in deep thought. Then he had fallen asleep.

<><><>

The rest of the journey was less morally fraught. The two men, when awake, talked harmlessly of literature and music and in Paris they shared a coffee before parting.

Waverly, careful not to show the fatherly interest he had begun to feel in the young Russian, said, “I hope that the USSR will agree to become a member of UNCLE. Discussions are delicate given the current situation in your country, but it seems possible. I think you would be an ideal candidate to become one of their first agents. I won’t embarrass you now by asking if that would interest you, but think about it, won’t you?”

Kuryakin looked at him seriously. “I will do so, of course, though I am at a loss to know why you would want a physicist. But, in any case, my future is not in my hands.”

“I know that. And we need scientists, too. However, I also know that it would probably be a mistake for me to ask for you. I have no desire to compromise you with your… leaders.”

“Thank you.” Kuryakin smiled and, as they shook hands, said, “Bon voyage, sir. It has been an honour to talk to you.”

“Enjoy your studies, Lieutenant. We shall meet again, I’m sure.”

<><><><>


End file.
